The Five Weeks of Sherlock and Molly
by colorfulconflict
Summary: A collection of short one-shots featuring Sherlock and Molly, which I plan to update every week for five weeks. Week#3: Umbrella - It takes a little act for Molly to like the rain.
1. Everybody Lies

**Everybody Lies**

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_It doesn't matter if it's out there somewhere _

_Waiting for the world to find_

_Or buried deep inside_

_Everybody lies_

_- Everybody Lies, Jason Walker_

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"…_and I always trusted you"_

_-Sherlock Holmes, 2x03: TRF_

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Her Lie

They say that if you were given a part to play then the best thing you can do is play it well. She lived by that rule. She loved it. She loved the challenge of playing someone else – even if it is as lonely as a head-over-heels pathologist in love. Besides, she loved being innocent for once (for she was never one). But, in every play comes a final act. Now it's time for hers. She put on her best show – her most pitiful screams, her most convincing cries, her most tear-worthy speech – all for the most important role she will ever play – a hostage for one of the most dangerous criminals in the world (which, in fact, she was working with).

After that, the actors behind the characters must be revealed. Then, the audience will know the truth:

It was all a lie.

His Lie

The minute he received the phone call he knew it was all a game. He wasn't worried – not at all. In fact, he was excited - who wouldn't want a little mind exercise once in a while?

When he arrived at the meeting place, he was a little challenged. He wasn't scared – not at all. He was entirely focused at the game at hand.

_Bang!_

The gun rang. He swore she was dead.

Then, out of the tense silence came a soft laugh – her laugh – that grew louder and louder.

"Did I do a good job?" she asked.

The minute he recognized the truth he wasn't hurt – not at all.

Unfortunately, everything he told himself was a lie.

It was all a lie.

(Her Other Lie

Every outstanding actress knows that the best way to be convincing is to find yourself in your role. She was no exception. Every day she put a little bit of herself in the part that she played . . . until suddenly she found herself _becoming_ her character.

The day of the reveal, she didn't feel regret. She didn't care. This is what she truly is – a ruthless actress forever trapped in her past. She was not the woman he met. It was just another perfectly executed role.

Unfortunately, as much as she tried to convince herself, she couldn't. She knows the truth:

It was all a lie)


	2. Dreaming

**Dreaming**

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Sherlock was looking through his microscope when he sensed Molly Hooper enter the room.

"Molly, just in time, I need you to get these samples for me," he said as he held out a piece of paper in her direction. When no one took them from his hand, he looked up.

"Molly, didn't you hear me?" He asked.

But Molly did not respond. She passed the room like she was looking for something and then walked away.

"Molly," But as he called her out, the door slammed shut. She already left the room without even acknowledging him.

He left the room to follow her as she walked through the corridors of St. Bart's.

"Molly, where are you going?" he said as he went towards her.

Molly didn't answer. She merely carried on walking, without giving even the slightest sign of noticing him.

He struggled to keep up, but it seemed that she was always a step ahead of him, like she was going on too fast, even if she was only walking.

"Molly," he called her out again as she went through an exit.

He followed her out. Outside he was greeted by blaring sirens, parked police cars and a ready ambulance. Yellow tape also surrounds a particular area outside St. Bart's.

The scene looked really familiar – he just couldn't remember why.

He crossed the area surrounding the yellow tape. That's when he saw the person he was calling just minutes ago – Molly Hooper, lying dead on the floor, covered with blood.

"Sherlock!" A faint voice called out. "Sherlock!"

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"_Sherlock!"_

The final call pulled him out of his dream.

"Sherlock, wake up. We're going to be late." The voice belonged to John, who was standing beside his bed, all dressed in black, with a sad expression on his face.

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Funerals are all the same. There would be people who would cry, people who would try to comfort other people, and people who would try to make a story out of a dead person's life. He had seen them all. He even had one himself. And yet as he attended Molly's funeral that day, it felt like he didn't even know a single thing about it.

Memories flashed behind his eyes as different people began to reminiscence different versions of Molly Hooper.

There was a younger Molly Hooper wearing her usual lab coat, stumbling to his lab for the first time. . .

"_Um . . . I'm Molly Hooper, by the way"_

"_Do you need help with that?"_

"_I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee."_

"_Black, two sugars, please, I'll be upstairs."_

"_H__e's not gay. Why do you have to __spoil—he's not!"_

_Dearest Sherlock, _

_Love Molly, xxx_

"_You always say such horrible things"_

"_I'm sorry. Forgive me"_

"_You look sad, when you think he can't see you. "_

"_What__ I'm trying to say is that if there's anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all, you can have me"_

"_But—but what could I need from you?"_

"_What do you need?"_

"_You"_

. . . And then . . .

He was a living dead man when he saw the scene just outside St Bart's. There were blaring sirens, parked police cars and a ready ambulance. Yellow tape was bordered on a particular area at St Bart's. People were also beginning to crowd near the scene.

_A murder_, he thought

He saw Lestrade together with John approaching the crime scene. Not a very unusual sight because when he 'died' Lestrade started to take John more and more often to different crime scenes.

Blending through the crowd, he followed them. Just as he was close enough, someone tried to stop him.

"Sir, this is a crime scene. . ." But he didn't need to go any farther. He already saw who the victim was. It was Molly Hooper.

That's when he decided to reveal that he was alive. He helped investigate her case and of course, found the murderer. He was one of Moriarty's loyal associates, hoping to get information about his whereabouts only for the interrogation to go completely wrong.

He just wished he watched Molly Hooper more. He would've been prepared when somebody like her murderer realized what he'd realized – that the person who counted was the person people would normally neglect.

But now it's too late. She's gone.

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"Good night, John" he said to John, who was sitting on a chair.

"Good night, Sherlock" John said, stuttering to say the last word. He was still getting used to the fact that his best friend was alive, after being dead for nearly 3 years.

Sherlock closed his bedroom door and lay on his bed. He closed his eyes and allowed his mind to take a rest. Then he thought about Molly Hooper – he knows there's no use to wishing, to feeling guilty about it, but he couldn't help himself. His only comfort was that maybe he'll dream about her again. Then, he'll say sorry for the things he made her do and failing to protect her. Maybe she'll smile. Maybe she'll try and talk to him again and as usual he'll be annoyed by the fact that she was disturbing him again.

But that's all they can be. Dreams.

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The Scientist, Coldplay

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**A/N: Sorry about that. A lot has happened lately and I wasn't able to update this that much. So please, enjoy, even if it's not that original. **


	3. Umbrella

**Umbrella**

Summary: It takes a little act for Molly to like the rain.

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Molly Hooper hated the rain. She hated the sound of it, from the gentle pitter-patter to the roaring downpour, the little streams of rain falling down from the awning in the roof and the little sprinkles of water wetting her whenever the wind blows. But most of all, Molly hated getting caught in it, because almost every single time the sky decides to shower the earth below, it's just her luck that she forgets her umbrella.

Yes, she knows it's foolish. How can you forget your umbrella when you're living with the London climate? Actually, she had that habit ever since she was a child. Constantly, her mother warns her of the incoming rain ("The weather's pretty unpredictable lately, darling. You should probably bring your umbrella,") and constantly she comes home from school soaking wet, hair bundled together by the moisture, with a very unpleasant mood ("I told you to bring your umbrella," her mother said preparing her bath).

Now, at 34 years old, watching droplets fall onto the pavement, she wonders why she hasn't learned her lesson yet.

She sighed. It's not like she isn't used to it.

Imitating what she's always done, she put her hands in her head (like _that_ would help) and prepared to approach the pouring rain. Just as about to take her first step, she felt a tall figure loom beside her.

"You should really start to bring your umbrella," he said, holding out an open umbrella above her.

"Sherlock –"

"It's one of Mycroft's umbrellas, Molly." He said almost annoyed. "Now take it, before you get drenched in the rain again. The last thing I want is for you to get sick. I need you tomorrow."

She took the umbrella from him. "Thank you, Sherlock." It didn't take long for her to realize he's out of her side.

She smiled. Maybe the rain isn't too bad after all.

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**A/N: I noticed that my stories are becoming sadder and sadder every day, so this is something happy for a change. Inspired by a scene in the movie wedding dress. **


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